Page 20 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Steadman huddled over a mug of ale in the darkest corner of the tavern, his back squarely to the wall as he waited for a scoundrel.

Rising late after the previous night’s surveillance, he had spent the day buying, cajoling, and otherwise assembling an appropriate disguise.

Boots, pantaloons, shirt, coat, hat—all worn previously and often—made up his ensemble.

An hour of vigorous exercise had imbued the clothing with an aroma suitable of a man who considered bathing a monthly chore.

He finished the job by oiling his hair, rubbing dirt into the pores of his face and hands, and clawing earth until the cuticles of his fingernails turned a suitable shade of black.

His only regret was not having let his beard grow, but two days of stubble would have to suffice.

Throughout the course of his preparations, he had somehow missed Morgan the entire day.

Twice, he knocked on her door with no answer.

Perhaps she’d been out. But where? And why not inform him?

In the tense minutes before his attempt to infiltrate the gang, his thoughts returned to the astonishing woman.

Her concern for his safety continued to warm him.

Visions of her in the grove the previous day filled his imagination.

Her disguise, so effective in fooling him for days, now barely concealed her womanhood.

Perhaps it was his pride and unwavering confidence in first impressions that had blinded him to the truth.

However, the truth now seen could not be unseen.

The attraction now felt could not be dismissed.

The loud entrance of several men yanked him from distraction.

Three-Finger Jack, all six and a half feet of him, swaggered into the tavern with his faithful devotees in his wake.

The gang, seven in all, took up residence against the bar, coarsely demanded drinks from the wary barkeeper, and proceeded to spin stories and insults in equal measure.

Steadman remained ensconced in the afterthought of the corner, sipping from his mug, which a bar maiden refilled with uncommon devotion and repeated flutters of long eyelashes.

However, he barely noticed her or the comings and goings of other patrons.

His shadow-eyed focus remained on Jack and his band of ham-fisted rogues, watching for an opening.

He would allow them to fall deeply into their cups before approaching the gang.

Then he would offer a round of drinks to purchase a measure of goodwill and follow that with a few words of ingratiating praise.

He would offer a story or two to establish his credentials as a man of low intentions.

These actions would allow him through the gate, of that he was certain.

After about hour, he sensed the opportune moment. With steady and deliberate movements, he gathered his empty mug, rose from his chair, and approached the huddle of men at the bar.

“Ho, there, gents.”

Seven pairs of eyes turned toward him, communicating suspicion, affront, or disregard. None said a word. A hard crew, for certain.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your tales,” he said. “For that diversion, I’d like to buy the next round of drinks for the lot of you.”

Jack uncurled from his slouch over the bar to loom over the tavern. He sneered and eyed Steadman as he might examine residue he had just picked from his stained teeth. “We need no charity from the likes of you. Step away, pretty boy, before we show you the color of your guts.”

Steadman frowned. This was not nearly the reaction he had expected.

Perhaps he had misjudged their state of inebriation.

He briefly considered earning the man’s trust by planting a fist squarely in his face but discarded the notion as foolhardy given the considerable number of accomplices.

Instead, he dipped his forehead and retreated to his dark corner to regroup and replan.

No sooner had he settled into his chair than his eyes flicked up to find a woman approaching the bar, her back to him.

She was shapely and elegant in a dress the color of a spring field and adorned with Vandyck-pointed lace, far out of place in the presence of such base men.

He watched, intrigued, as she slid between Three-Finger Jack and one of his men and flicked a finger at the barkeeper for a drink.

The gang leader cast a leering eye toward her and made room.

“Thank you, sir. I meant not to intrude.”

The woman’s voice brought Steadman bolt upright in his chair. When she turned to face Jack, Steadman nearly fell to the floor. Morgan!

“No trouble, little missy,” said the gang leader. “Pretty faces are never a bother.”

As Steadman gaped with astonishment, Morgan reached a tentative hand to brush Jack’s barrel chest. “Aren’t you a charmer, Mister…”

“Mister nothin.’ My friends call me Three-Finger Jack.” He splayed a paw of a hand bereft of the little and ring fingers. “And you are?”

“Miss Brady.” Her voice was tremulous as she withdrew her hand and lowered her gaze. “And are we now friends, Mr. Jack?”

“Oh, I’d like to be more than just friends.”

Steadman watched with fascinated horror as Morgan tried not to wilt in place.

In a moment of frozen time, he saw her—truly her—for perhaps the first time.

The green dress accentuated curves formally buried beneath a threadbare suit.

Her short locks were pinned up with a pair of combs into a decidedly delicate configuration.

With hair swept aside, her prominent cheekbones and long neck cried femininity to the heavens.

Her voice, boyish before, revealed itself for what it truly was—in possession of a sultry quality like the full-throated alto of a songbird.

Her eyes alone remained unchanged—wide, intelligent, remarkable. But they also held a spark of fear.

“Tell me, sir. How did you lose your poor fingers?’

The giant man’s brow drew downward. “Nobody dares ask that question.”

She blinked twice, her fear more palpable still. “My apologies. I merely assumed everyone knew but me.”

Jack’s face split into a grin, and he laughed. “Just foolin,’ missy. You’re no coward, I grant you that. And if you must know, I lost ‘em in a fight. It was back in oh-four, during the dead of winter.”

With that, he began spinning the tale of his missing fingers, dramatic, detailed, likely embellished, and clearly designed to impress his new acquaintance.

While Steadman watched Morgan, she listened intently and smiled at all the right times.

In the throes of his observations, an alien emotion welled up from the depths of his soul to flood his chest. So unique was the sensation that he needed a moment to identify it.

Abject jealousy.

Without knowing quite when, he had risen to his feet. On finishing his tale, Jack captured Morgan’s chin as if to kiss her, even while she tried to duck away from his hand. Steadman ambled three steps forward before Morgan’s panicked gaze found his.

Come quickly, it said.

In an instant he was between the gang leader and Morgan, prying her away from the bar until a table blocked his path. He pivoted to stand as a shield between her and Jack, his temples pulsing with anger. The giant took one step in his direction.

“I’m going to crush your face, pretty boy.”

***

Held in Steadman’s grip behind him, Morgan felt her partner tense for the coming battle. Three-Finger Jack’s associates starting to lean into the conflict, convinced her that Steadman was in dire straits. She wrestled away from his grip and planted herself between the two men.

“I would not, Mr. Jack.” Her plaintive assertion caught the gang leader’s attention.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because this man is of devilishly low cunning and good with a knife in close quarters. He has made a steady living of criminal enterprise, the lower the job, the more to his liking. In fact, his friends and enemies alike call him Worm.”

Steadman exhaled a huff of breath into her hair. “Worm?”

Jack squinted at Steadman, clearly suspicious of her claim. “I don’t know…”

“Indeed, it is true,” she said hurriedly.

“He once packaged a constable in Cornwall and sent him to Wales on the morning mail coach. That was after the time he created a detour on the Dover highway and robbed seven coaches singlehandedly as they came along. And then there was the day he liberated an orphanage and turned all forty-three of the children into the most effective band of pickpockets in Liverpool.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose as she spoke. He seemed impressed. However, his brow furrowed again. “How come I never heard of him, then?”

“A Home Office conspiracy. They actively bury his name to prevent him from gaining too much notoriety. Why, the common folk would riot in support if his true deeds came to light.”

The large man nodded and grinned. “Sounds like my kind of fellow. Believe I won’t kill him after all.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jack. I owe you a debt.”

“Which I will collect now.” Jack leaned toward her with lips puckered, his alcohol-soaked breath invading her senses. Suddenly, though, she was yanked aside by the shoulder. She found herself in Steadman’s arms, staring up at him with alarm.

“Sorry, mate,” he said to the gang leader. “But Miss Brady is here for me.”

With that, his hand pressed to the small of her back and he lifted her into a tighter embrace.

His mouth fell toward her upturned face, and he pressed his warm lips into hers.

In a flash, Morgan understood his game. The kiss was a ruse to save her from Three-Finger Jack’s advances.

However, in a second flash, she forgot even that.

What should have lasted but a second stretched into an epoch of time as her lips melted beneath his kiss.

Her hands found the stubble of his jaw and held on for dear life to avoid getting swept away by his torrent of passion, playacting or not.

He responded by drawing her closer until just the tips of her toes brushed the floor.

“Worm!” Three-Finger Jack’s shout shattered the kiss. Steadman returned Morgan to the floor and glared over her head. She turned to find the giant staring grimly. Then he threw back his head and emitted a gale of laughter. “Now, that’s the way to properly kiss yer woman!”

He slapped Steadman on the shoulder and drew him away from Morgan into a comrade’s embrace. “It seems we could use a man of your, ah, skills, Worm. Meet us here tomorrow if you are interested.”

“Oh, I’m interested.” He glanced at Morgan. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe Miss Brady is weary from a long day.”

“Of course, she is!” roared Jack. “Take her to bed, man.”

With a nod, Steadman practically carried Morgan from the tavern and into the street.

They hurried in uneasy silence for several minutes to arrive back at the inn, with Morgan’s head spinning all the way.

When they had climbed the stairs, she turned to him, determined to sort out what had just happened.

“Thank you for saving me from him.” She could not lift her eyes up to meet his. “Your ruse was…effective.”

He simply stared at her, uncharacteristically silent. His face wore a mask of bewilderment. He tugged at his collar. “You’re welcome, Miss Brady.”

Without another word or a backward glance, he ducked into his room and closed the door.

Left alone, Morgan slipped into her room and locked the door.

She settled gently onto the bed with her hands in her lap and stared at the door, reveling in the kiss.

Even though it had been a performance, his spontaneous act had sent her hurtling across a great divide into an unknown country.

For the first time in her life, Morgan had felt—if even for a moment—what it was to be desired.

And the wondrous feeling threatened to consume her.